Death of a Messenger

by Robert McCaw

  Hook had called an hour earlier to offer Koa “a real nice a‘u for Nālani.” The suggestion of fresh fish contained a coded message. Hook had important information, something big enough to justify the use of the special a‘u code word and to require a personal meeting. To request a meeting in this weather, the message had to be vital.

  Koa parked as close as possible to the pier. The rain gods seemed even angrier close to the bay, and the wind nearly wrenched the car door out of his hand. Luckily, he wore thick rubber boots and a rain slicker. Conscious of the treacherous footing and the near-gale-force winds, he trod cautiously along the battered planking of the ancient pier, lined on both sides with oceangoing trawlers. The last thing he needed was a fall that would wrench his already damaged neck. With relief, he stepped across the gangway to the Ka‘upu and onto the well-worn deck. Slipping around to the side of the wheelhouse, he pulled the heavy door open and entered the warm, dry space inside. Hook, who had been working at the chart table, turned to greet him.

  “Aloha,” he exclaimed warmly. “Climb out of that slicker and make yourself at home.” Hook motioned to one of the two chairs bolted to the deck and poured two cups of hot coffee from a thermos. “Something to ward off the nukumane‘o, you know, the malignant spirits?” Hook held up a flask, and when Koa nodded, he added a dollop of amber liquid to each cup.

  Koa took one of the cups and held it aloft. “To the puhi.” He grinned, recalling their first meeting.

  “The puhi.” Hook smiled. They touched cups and drank.

  “How’s Reggie, Hook?”

  “He’s doing well. Looks like he might be released from the hospital in the next couple of days. The head doctors say he’ll be back to normal in a couple of months.”

  “That’s great.”

  “I’m still worried about the legal thing. I don’t trust Baxter.”

  “Baxter’s an asshole,” Koa acknowledged, “but Iwikua, the prosecutor, controls what happens to Reggie.”

  “I know. Reggie’s lawyer says the same thing, but I won’t stop worrying until Reggie’s in the clear. That’s why I called in this foul weather.”

  “This has something to do with Reggie?”

  “There’s a pilina, an’ Reggie gets credit for this a‘u, okay?”

  “You’re telling me the information comes from Reggie?”

  “Reggie remembered something an’ I did some askin’ around. Dock talk … you understand. The information is solid. Reggie gets credit; you’ll make sure of that?”

  “If it’s solid, Reggie gets credit.”

  “Reggie remembered seeing Garvie with another dude, a little Japanese guy, Tony something, with a fishhook scar on his face. A Japanese Tony don’t mean nothing to me, but the fishhook scar, that triggered a memory. I’ve seen that dude. He’s been around the docks. He did time up at Kūlani for smuggling dope.” The two exchanged a glance. A criminal engaged in one enterprise didn’t have much problem turning to another.

  “So I get to thinking—what’s Scarface doing with Jenkins? Maybe they met in the big house … maybe they’re in business together. “Fishermen have ears. If you know who to ask, you learn things. Scarface runs an import-export business.” Hook paused. “Now if you wanted to move drugs or looted treasures, you need a shipping business, maybe, a freight business run by an ex-con, an ex-con who did time with you. I checked. The two of them were cell mates at Kūlani.”

  “What’s the name of this import-export business? Where’s it located?” Koa asked.

  “Hold on, Koa. I ain’t done serving a‘u yet.”

  “There’s more?”

  “Early December Scarface shipped a package, a container for Jenkins, on a barge out of Kawaihae Harbor through a freight forwarder on O‘ahu to a Hong Kong address.”

  “How did you discover all this?”

  “You really don’t want to know.” Hook grinned. “What you should know is that another shipment is scheduled tomorrow, another container out of Kawaihae.”

  “How can I identify it?”

  “It will be on a flatbed pulled by a transporter from Starfish Shipping, consigned through TransPacific Freight Forwarders to Orient Reprocessing in Hong Kong. The container arrives at Kawaihae Port for loading tomorrow morning. The barge is supposed to be under tow by 11:00 a.m.”

  Koa felt the pace of the investigation accelerate. Jenkins had taken a large god-like obsidian figurine from the Kaho‘olawe mine, and with the police making inquiries, he would want to fence his loot as quickly as possible. It could easily be in that container. “Where’s the container now?”

  “Don’t know. I just know where it’s going.”

  “This is reliable?”

  “Would I ask you to come down here in this stinkin’ weather if it weren’t reliable?” Hook grinned. “More coffee?”

  This could be a long-awaited break in the case. “No. I’d better get going. I’ve got some arrangements to make before 11:00 a.m. tomorrow.”

  “Mahalo.”

  “Mahalo, my friend.”

  Koa was already concentrating on logistics as he donned his slicker and stepped out of the wheelhouse. How could he search the container? He doubted that he had enough for a warrant, certainly not without laying out Hook’s long-term reliability as an informer, and the judge might well ask how Hook had gotten the information. He needed to find a way without a warrant. Suddenly, the answer came to him.

  By seven o’clock the following morning, Koa and his men were in position. Koa himself was in the operator’s cab of an unused crane, high above the harbor. Spread out below him like a map, Kawaihae lay tucked along the northern coastline of an elbow-shaped bay off the ‘Alenuihāhā Channel between Maui and the Big Island. The manmade harbor enclosed an oblong rectangle of water, bordered by a single wharf with only two commercial vessels. Almost directly below Koa an oceangoing barge, stacked high with containers destined for Honolulu and beyond, strained at its hawsers. At the ocean end of the dock, a powerful sea tug, the Ali‘i Mano, or Shark-Chief, lay snugged up against the timbers, awaiting its daylong tow to O‘ahu.

  Koa picked up his binoculars and surveyed the scene, looking first up Kawaihae Road, the most likely route for an approaching flatbed truck. Nothing. He refocused his binoculars on a small shed, not more than twenty yards from the loading area, which concealed Detective Piki and a uniformed patrolman.

  Refocusing yet again, he peered toward the guard shack by the entry gate, where Sergeant Basa stood. He was in civilian dress, armed with a clipboard, ready to assist the port security officer verifying the entry authority of incoming vehicles. Basa would be the first to identify the suspect container and alert the others.

  Trucks turned into the port area and discharged their containers, but none bore the Starfish logo. Time passed. Periodically, Koa scanned the road, but no more trucks appeared. At 10:15 four sailors arrived in a blue Ford van and boarded the tug. Several minutes later, Koa heard her engines cough and burble to life. Koa looked at his watch; it was 10:25 a.m. Time was running out. Maybe Hook had gotten it wrong.

  He swung his field glasses back to the highway, and there, barreling down the blacktop, came a flatbed truck bearing a single twenty-foot container. “Truck approaching,” Koa radioed his team. The truck came on at high speed, racing through the outskirts of the village, braking hard just before the turnoff into the dock area. Koa heard the hiss of air brakes as the vehicle slowed and swung around the corner to an abrupt halt in front of the guard post.

  Koa focused the field glasses on the truck. His heart raced at the sight of a starfish overprinted with the words Starfish Shipping. Movement caught his eye. He adjusted the binoculars. There were two men in the cab of the truck. Koa didn’t recognize the driver, but the second man wasn’t a total stranger. Koa knew Garvie Jenkins from a police mug shot.

  The driver jumped from the cab with a handful of papers and sprinted into the security building. He emerged moments later with the dock guard and Sergeant Basa. Koa held his br
eath as he watched a magnified view of Basa checking and rechecking the paperwork, the truck, and its container. The police sergeant seemed to be taking forever. Something must be wrong.

  Suddenly, Basa’s hand, the one holding the clipboard, shot up into the air. It was the prearranged signal—the expected container had arrived. “The box is in the bag,” Koa radioed to the team waiting at the dockside. “On your toes, everyone. The second man, riding shotgun, is Garvie Jenkins.”

  As soon as the truck cleared the guard shack, Basa’s voice crackled over the radio. “Koa, you’re not going to believe this. The shipper is the Alice Telescope Project. The bill of lading describes the cargo as used machine tools, computer parts, servos, and other miscellaneous industrial parts.”

  Koa whistled softly. Could the Alice Telescope Project be linked to Garvie Jenkins and possible archaeological looting? The contents of that container should be most interesting. He began climbing down from his perch as the flatbed rolled alongside the barge.

  Koa approached as an excited Piki and a uniformed officer emerged from the shed, split up, and surrounded the truck. Piki gesticulated as he exchanged words with the driver, who looked back and forth from Piki to the uniformed officer, before reluctantly climbing down from the cab.

  “What’s the matter? This here container’s got to be on that barge before she sails.”

  “Not until we inspect it,” Piki responded with a flourish.

  “You can’t open it. It’s locked.”

  “Then, we’ll have to break the lock,” Piki shot back. He brought his fist down on his hand, like he was already smashing the lock.

  “You got a warrant?” Jenkins asked, descending from the tractor.

  “We don’t need one, Mr. Jenkins,” Koa intervened, enjoying Jenkins’s look of surprise at the mention of his name.

  “Who the fuck are you?” Jenkins shot back.

  “Detective Koa Kāne, Hawai‘i County Police.”

  “I know my rights. You can’t search this container without a warrant.” Jenkins had the cocksure arrogance of a jailhouse lawyer.

  “Didn’t you read the sign as you came through the gate? All containers entering this port facility are subject to inspection. You consented to a search when you entered.” A look of consternation flickered across Jenkins’s face, but he recovered astonishingly quickly. “So, go ahead an’ search the fuckin’ thing. You won’t find no contraband.” His casual assurance surprised Koa.

  Piki and the uniformed officer turned their attention to the container, breaking the seals and smashing the lock. Piki summoned two dockworkers to manhandle a crate out of the shipping container and down to the wharf. With crowbars and hammers they ripped it open, exposing more packing material—chunks of Styrofoam and cardboard boxes. Koa watched as Piki opened the first of the boxes, scattering plastic peanuts to the wind, and stared intently at the object inside.

  “Koa, you better have a look.”

  Koa, who had been watching Jenkins as the search operation proceeded, joined Piki. The young police officer looked crestfallen as he held up used machine parts.

  Koa looked back at Jenkins, who sported a cocky grin. “You found my used machinery, just like it says on the manifest. Satisfied, Detective?”

  “Excuse me, excuse me, if you blokes don’t git this here container on that barge, we gonna be sailin’ without it. We gotta git under way, so’s we kin keep the schedule.” Koa turned to see a sailor, presumably the tugboat captain, standing in front of him. The man had a massive wad of chewing tobacco in his mouth and a distinctly unhappy expression.

  “I’m Chief Detective Koa Kāne of the Hawai‘i police. We’re going to finish inspecting this container. It’s not going anywhere until we’re satisfied.”

  “You’re not thinkin’ of detaining us, are you, Detective?”

  “You know what’s in this container?”

  “Nah, we jis haul the buggers. We don’t take no responsibility for packin’ ’em.”

  “Then I’m not thinking of detaining you.”

  “We can’t wait much longer, Detective. The tide’s going out an’ it’s twenty-two hours across to Honolulu. We got a goddamn schedule to keep.”

  “That’s a lawful shipment,” Jenkins said. “You’ve seen for yourself. It’s a shipment of used industrial equipment. You have no right to stop it. I’ll sue the county. I’ll sue you and the fuckin’ county.” Jenkins’s voice rose with his threat.

  Koa knew that he was on shaky ground. He didn’t have a warrant. If he held up the container and found nothing, Jenkins could sue the county. Koa’s defense would require him to give up Hook as an informer.

  Still, Hook’s information had always been right on the mark. The container had appeared exactly as predicted, and Garvie Jenkins had been riding shotgun. The ex-con hadn’t come all the way across the island just to protect a shipment of used machinery. And he had initially objected to the search, only to back off with a smug expression. Something was fishy, and Koa intended to find out what.

  Koa turned to Piki and his team. “Get the rest of the boxes out of the truck and open them up.”

  “I’m gonna sue you for every penny you’ve got,” Jenkins threatened.

  “We’ve got to get under way,” the tugboat captain insisted.

  “Your choice, Captain. Shove off now without this container or wait till we’re done.”

  The man backed away before turning to walk back to the tug. “We’ll be casting off and taking up the tow.”

  “Every fuckin’ penny,” Jenkins threatened again.

  The tug cast off, whistled farewell, and sailed out into the channel. An hour passed before the police officers and dockhands had unloaded and unpacked eight huge boxes, all of which were heavy and well crated. Detective Piki shook his head as they finished the last crate. “It’s all machine tools, computer parts, electro-mechanical devices, and other industrial parts, just like it says on the manifest.” All of Piki’s previous energy and enthusiasm had left him.

  “Fuckin’ satisfied now, Detective?” Jenkins snarled.

  If Jenkins’s hostility was meant to deter Koa, it had the opposite effect. He was more determined than ever to outsmart the asshole.

  Something wasn’t right. Koa couldn’t believe that Hook had failed him. He climbed into the empty container. No false bottom. No false top. He rapped the side panels. No hidden compartments. He paced its length—four, five, six strides, plus a couple of feet—a standard twenty-foot container. He examined the rivets—nothing out of the ordinary.

  He climbed down out of the container and walked around the truck. A standard twenty-foot container on a standard truck bed, just like the one parked across the way. He compared the two rigs. They appeared identical—tractor, flatbed, container flush with the back of the flatbed. Then he saw the discrepancy. The container on the Starfish truck wasn’t flush with the back of the flatbed. It hung over the back, too long for the truck. A short extension had been welded to the front of the container. Koa understood immediately: it wasn’t a standard twenty-foot container. The container had a separate compartment, not accessible from the main compartment.

  Koa walked back to Detective Piki. “Get a crane operator out here and lift that container off the flatbed. We’re going to have a look at the other end.”

  “Why?” Piki looked puzzled.

  “Because Jenkins is a clever bastard.”

  Soon a crane operator had lifted the container off the Starfish truck. When they finally had access to the front of the container, both Koa and Piki could just barely see the welds where an extra compartment had been attached. But there appeared to be no access, no door, no way of getting inside.

  “Want me to try the top?” Piki asked, once again bubbling with enthusiasm.

  “Sure.” Two dockhands boosted Detective Piki up onto the top of the container.

  “Nothing, no access from the top,” Piki reported. “Guess we’ll have to cut the son of a bitch open with a blowtorch.” Piki made
a back-and-forth gesture like he was ready to wield the welding torch himself.

  “Let’s try the bottom before we call for a welder,” Koa suggested. The crane operator once again lifted the container, letting it swing gently eight feet off the ground. When the two detectives walked underneath, they immediately spotted the bolts holding the bottom of the attached compartment in place. They both spoke in unison. “We need to lay it on its side.”

  The crane operator complained loudly that the police had lost it, but with the help of two dockhands and cables attached to one side of the container, they managed to turn the steel box on its side. Fifteen minutes and eighteen hex-headed steel bolts later, they had the attached compartment opened. They saw more crates, specially designed to fit snugly inside the hidden compartment.

  Piki admired Jenkins’s handiwork. “Pretty neat setup. No customs agent would ever find that compartment.”

  “You’re right about that. I’ll bet he’s moved a lot of contraband in that box. The state police and the FBI will want to trace its previous movements. But right now,” Koa directed, “we need to see what’s in those crates.”

  Piki and the uniformed officers went back to work pulling crates before attacking them with crowbars. More cardboard, more Styrofoam peanuts, then bubble wrap. Soon the young detective had unpacked a dozen objects from the first of the crates. Koa felt his heart skip a beat. Spread before the detective on the wharf, each on its own sheet of plastic bubble wrap, were a dozen stone implements, hammerstones, adzes, a stone bowl, a kukui nut oil lamp, and a stone mask, unlike anything Koa had previously seen.

  Piki, still kneeling, looked up at Koa. “Think these are from that cave you and that park service archaeologist discovered out at Pōhakuloa?”

  “It’s a good bet. I mean, look at the different artifacts—bowls, hammerstones, and other things. That stuff didn’t come from the obsidian mine on Kaho‘olawe. And we know Jenkins got data from Skeeter and Kling related to Pōhakuloa. Where else could this stuff have come from?”